The Cost of Living

by Rachel Ward

  9

  ‘Don’t go upstairs, Bea. Sit with me.’

  Bea sighed. She was worn out and numb from the day’s events. But then she looked at her mum and felt her tired, sore heartstrings pulled again by the knowledge that Queenie had spent the day alone. So she sat and watched the news with her while they ate pasta parcels and sauce (it was Thursday), although in truth neither of them ate much, the food congealing on their plates as the presenter introduced the report about Ginny. A reporter stood by the taped-off alleyway leading out of the estate where Ant lived. She was wearing a red coat, with a patterned scarf tucked into the top. The wind hadn’t died down at all – she kept having to scrape strands of hair away from her face.

  ‘You’d have thought she’d have put a black coat on, wouldn’t you? Showed a bit of respect,’ said Queenie.

  ‘Shh, Mum. I’m trying to watch.’ They both listened as the reporter described the facts of the case. They were few and far between: Ginny’s body had been found by a lad delivering newspapers in the morning. Although no official statement on the cause of death had been made, it was understood that Ginny had been attacked from behind. The area had been cordoned off and police had been making enquiries in the surrounding streets as well as at her place of work (cut to a shot of the front of the Costsave building) as well as the last place she was seen (The Nag’s Head). They showed a map of Ginny’s known movements which included her house, Costsave, the pub and the alley, and cut to a local police spokesman, in plain clothes, not uniform, appealing to members of the public to come forward with information.

  ‘I wonder how much she’d been drinking,’ Queenie said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘How much Ginny had had.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Bea could feel her hackles rising.

  ‘Well, if she was really drunk, she wouldn’t be so aware of what was happening around her, she might not take so much care.’

  Bea pointed the remote at the screen and froze it.

  ‘Okay, stop right there, Mum. Stop. Right. There.’

  ‘What?’ Queenie seemed oblivious of the offence she was causing.

  ‘Stop before you say “She was asking for it” because that’s where you were heading.’

  ‘Well, if you drink until you’re incapable . . . ’

  ‘No! No, Mum. She was attacked in an alleyway. She was killed by some maniac. That’s nothing to do with her and everything to do with the scum who attacked her.’

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘But nothing. But nothing. End of.’

  ‘Bea—’

  ‘I was drinking, Mum. Was I asking for it, for that? Was I?’

  ‘No. No, of course not, I just—’

  ‘Oh, shush. Let’s just watch the news.’

  She pressed ‘play’. Still struggling against the wind, the reporter wound up her report: ‘There’s an air of foreboding today in the little town of Kingsleigh. A serial attacker is walking among the people here, someone who knows the town, who knows the people. And the question on everyone’s lips, “When will he strike again?” Now, back to the studio.’

  ‘God, thought it was a news programme, not bloody Silent Witness,’ said Bea.

  ‘She’s right, though, isn’t she?’ said Queenie. ‘One injured, one dead. It’s a serial killer. And they don’t stop until someone stops them. Did you lock the door?’

  ‘Yes, of course I did. But we don’t know it’s the same person. It could be a coincidence.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Bea. It’s the same man. Prowling around. Preying on girls like you.’

  Bea wanted to shush her, tell her she was being ridiculous, but she was right. The guy was preying on girls like her. And she was pretty sure that he’d followed her, twice. He knew where she walked. It could have been her. She might be next.

  Waves of panic surged through her, flipping her stomach over, making her heart race. She didn’t want to show Queenie that she was rattled, but it was hard keeping a lid on her feelings. She hated feeling like this. She didn’t want to feel helpless.

  She put her untouched plate on the coffee table and reached for her laptop. She had to do something.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Queenie.

  ‘Looking at my list.’

  ‘Your detective one? It won’t do any good. Leave it to the experts.’

  ‘It won’t do any harm. I want to do something.’

  Bea opened the file. This was getting complicated, so she pasted the information she’d got so far into a spreadsheet and added a new column: ‘Nag’s Head’. She started going through the people she could remember being in the pub the night before. If they were already on the list from date night, she added a ‘Yes’ to their line. If they were new, she created a new entry for them.

  ‘ . . . not even listening, are you?’

  She looked up and found that Queenie was looking at her, not the TV.

  ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘I was saying that you should get a taxi to work and back. You shouldn’t walk anywhere any more.’

  Bea sighed, pressed ‘save’ and closed the lid.

  ‘Have you won the lottery or something?’ she said, then wished she hadn’t. Finances were a touchy area.

  ‘We’ll find the money somewhere. Or just don’t go to work until this is over. Ask for compassionate leave or something, or go on the sick.’

  Bea could feel the steam rising. ‘He’s won then, hasn’t he, the bastard who’s doing this? If all the single women in the town don’t go out, unless someone else can drive them, that’s just giving in. What’s the point?’

  ‘The point is you’ll be safe. My nerves are on edge every minute you’re out of the house now, Bea. I don’t know how much more I can take.’

  The red patch of scratched skin on her mum’s wrist was bigger.

  ‘Mum, you’ve got to stop worrying. I’m taking precautions. I’m being sensible. I can’t stay in like . . . ’ She tried to stop the last word coming out, but it was too late. They both knew what she had been going to say. Queenie seemed to collapse into the chair, her shoulders sagged and her head slumped forward.

  ‘You don’t want to be like me,’ she said. ‘No, of course not. Who would want to be like me?’

  ‘Mum, I’m sorry.’ Bea went over and put her arms round her. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.’

  ‘I don’t want to be like me either. Do you think I like living like this?’ Queenie lifted her head up and Bea could see the tears forming wet tracks down her face.

  Bea felt like she was dying inside – but at the same time there was a spark of hope. Maybe this was it. The breakthrough she’d been looking for. ‘So let’s do something about it. Let’s see someone, talk to someone, get some help.’

  ‘Who could possibly help me? It’s too late, Beatrice. Too late for me.’

  Bea wiped some of the tears away with her thumb, remembering Queenie doing the same thing for her when she was little. What did she cry about then? A scraped knee? A dropped ice cream? Six years ago, when her dad had died, they hadn’t wiped the tears away because the next wave of them was never far behind. They had clung together, lost, and their tears had made damp patches on each other’s shoulders, and their mascara had stained each other’s clothes.

  ‘Of course it isn’t! We could start with your GP.’

  ‘That quack? No, thank you. Do you remember how many times Dad went to see him? How many times he told him it was just indigestion?’

  ‘I know. I know, but that one, Doctor Bennett, retired a couple of years ago. There’s a nice new one, a woman. She’s really sensible and kind. She’d understand.’

  ‘And how would I get to the surgery when I can’t even walk to the end of the front path? I can’t do it, Bea. Don’t try to make me.’

  ‘She could come here. We could ask for a house call. Come on, Mum, how about it? We’ll need a letter from her anyway for the benefits people. Let’s make a phone call.’

  ‘You want me out
there, outside, when there’s a maniac on the streets?’

  ‘No! Of course not. I want you outside, doing the things you want to do. Going to the shops. Getting your hair done. Going to the bingo or the cinema. I want you to have a normal life.’

  Queenie’s face closed down. ‘I’ll never have a normal life, Bea. You know that. How can I?’

  Bea closed her eyes and rested her head against her mum’s. People die all the time. It’s the one inevitable, unavoidable truth. It’s an everyday thing. But when is it ever okay to tell someone it’s time to let go, to move on? She could never say that to Queenie. The words would turn to ash in her mouth and she’d choke on them.

  ‘I loved him too, Mum. I loved him too,’ she said and held her tightly. Queenie held her back and they sat in silence for a while.

  Later, tucked up in bed, Bea returned to her spreadsheet. It was only a partial picture, but there were some obvious suspects – people who had been in Costsave on date night and at the Nag’s Head or the spinathon the week before:

  Kevin

  Bob

  Big Gav

  Lee

  Dave

  Neville

  Dean

  She looked at her lists again, and reluctantly added another name:

  Ant

  It wasn’t a definitive list, but it was a start. She studied each name in turn. Could she really see any of them as a killer?

  She needed to put personal opinion aside somehow, be more methodical. How did they do this on the telly or in films? There were three things, weren’t there? She struggled to retrieve them from the back of her mind, but they wouldn’t come, so she typed a quick search into Google and there it was: Means, motive and opportunity.

  She added three more columns on her spreadsheet:

  ‘Means – is he capable of killing Ginny?’

  ‘Motive – Why kill Ginny?’

  ‘Opportunity – did he have a chance to kill her?’

  She then went through the list again, trying to fill in the columns. After twenty minutes or so, she still had one column completely clear – motive. Who on earth would want to harm Ginny, let alone kill her? She had been annoyingly pretty, almost perfect in a cheerleadery sort of way, but she was a nice person. Easy to get along with, down to earth. Bea felt her stomach flip again as she realised she’d never see her again. She was gone. She’d ended. Just like that. Someone had stopped her, mid-sentence.

  Bea looked at the screen again, but it was blurred by the tears welling up in her eyes.

  ‘Bastard!’ she said. ‘You bastard!’

  She wiped her eyes with a tissue and blew her nose. She checked the alarm clock on the bedside table. Half past two. That terrible time when you’ve gone beyond sleepiness and have hours until the new day starts. She wanted to keep working on the case, but she’d hit a wall. She needed someone to talk it over with, another perspective.

  Her phone pinged. Frowning, Bea reached for it. She’d left it near her pillow, charging from a power point under the bedhead. It had been pulled by the cord underneath the pillow and felt warm to the touch.

  One new message.

  Tom: You awake?

  He’d messaged earlier in the evening to check that she’d got home safely. Bea smiled and texted back. Yup. Can’t sleep.

  Wanna talk?

  I’ll ring.

  No need. Look out ur window.

  ?

  She got out of bed and went across to the window, which was at the front of the house. She parted the curtains in the middle and peered out. There was a car parked directly outside. It wasn’t a police car, with its distinctive stripes down the side, but a dark saloon. Looking up at her from the driver’s seat was Tom. He waved through the window.

  Bea’s phone pinged again.

  Come on, come and see me.

  Bea looked down at her Disney pyjamas.

  I’m not dressed!

  Even better.

  You can come in. Too cold out.

  Okay.

  Come round the back.

  Saucy!

  Bea blushed, but there was no time for a suitable put-down. She could already see Tom opening the driver’s door and there she was in nightwear suitable for a small child, with all her wobbly bits unconfined. She didn’t have time to get dressed, so she chose her plainest, largest dressing gown and wrapped it firmly around her. She slid her feet into her slippers – pink, fluffy, Disney. Oh God, what on earth would he think of her?

  She headed down the stairs as fast and as quietly as she could. She hoped he’d have the sense not to knock at the door. The last thing they needed now was Queenie joining the party. She unbolted the back door and turned the key in the lock. He was there, stamping his feet and blowing on his hands.

  ‘Hello, you,’ he said.

  ‘Hello.’

  He swooped in for a kiss, catching her by surprise, mouth open. His lips were cold and dry, his nose cold too, where it nestled against hers. But his tongue was warm as it explored her mouth, probing gently but insistently. She was too surprised to resist, didn’t want to anyway. She moaned a little as he wrapped his arms round her.

  ‘Mmn, you’re warm,’ he said, kissing her ear.

  ‘And you’re freezing, and you’re bringing it in with you,’ she hissed and she took his hand and led him into the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. For a moment, it was like someone had pressed ‘pause’. They stood looking at each other, grinning.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Bea said softly.

  ‘I just wanted to see you,’ he said, his voice too loud for the sleeping house.

  ‘Shh,’ Bea said, holding her index finger up to her lips. He lunged forward again, kissing her finger, sucking the end, then moving it away with his hand and kissing her mouth, hard.

  For a minute or two, Bea was completely lost in the moment. Her senses were full of him – the sound of his lips on hers, his breath coming faster and louder, the scratch of his stubble against her face, his fingers somehow inside her dressing gown and cold through the material of her pyjama top, so cold they made her gasp when they explored further and found the bare skin underneath. He pushed her against the kitchen table, so that the edge was digging into the top of her legs. Soon she’d have to sit down or fall backwards. She was surprised how keen he was, how insistent. It was unexpected but flattering, exciting too – but now a noise from upstairs brought her back to reality. Was Queenie just turning over in bed or was she getting up?

  Suddenly it seemed a bit squalid, a bit wrong to be doing this here, now, with Queenie upstairs and Ginny lying in a mortuary somewhere. Especially Ginny. It was more than a bit wrong.

  Bea wriggled her hand between them and pushed against his chest, at the same time pulling her face away from his.

  ‘I can’t do this, not today,’ she said.

  He didn’t seem to have heard, and tried to kiss her again. His hand was still under her top, resting in the place where the curve of her waist met the curve of her breast.

  ‘You saw her, didn’t you? Ginny? How can you do this when it’s been such an awful day?’

  That stopped him. He sighed and drew back a little.

  ‘It’s my job, Bea. I see stuff, terrible stuff, every day. You learn to switch off. You have to or you’d go mad.’

  Close up, she could see how some of the freckles joined up on his nose, how the tips of his eyelashes were white-blonde rather than ginger.

  ‘I don’t think I can,’ she said. ‘Switch off.’

  ‘Bea—’

  ‘I’m sorry. I can’t. Ginny was my friend, she—’ She reached inside her top and gently moved his hand away.

  ‘Come on—’

  ‘I can’t.’

  He breathed out sharply, almost a snort of frustration. ‘I’ll go then. I shouldn’t have come here.’

  ‘No, stay. Have a cup of tea. We can talk.’

  He turned away and she thought he was heading for the door, but then he turned again and sat down at the table. �
��Okay,’ he said, ‘a cup of tea. No sugar for me.’

  While she filled the kettle and got the mugs ready, Bea self-consciously tried to set her clothes straight, pulling the hem of her top down and drawing her dressing gown tightly around her body. She was aware of him watching her, and felt somehow vulnerable – here, in her own kitchen, in her nightclothes – at a disadvantage.

  She made the tea and put two mugs on the table, then sat opposite him.

  ‘What was she like? Ginny?’ Tom asked.

  Bea found that she was happy to talk about her. ‘Well, she was sickeningly pretty, and very sporty, but she was so nice with it. She wasn’t one of those mean girls. She was everyone’s friend.’

  He clamped his lips together, shook his head. ‘Doesn’t make any sense, does it?’ he said. ‘Someone killing a girl like that. Perhaps she was just unlucky – wrong place, wrong time.’

  ‘Do you think it was random then? It wasn’t about her?’

  He sipped his tea. ‘We don’t know. He may have known her, followed her. That’s why we were interviewing people at the shop today. It could be a stranger, though. An opportunistic thing.’

  ‘Not just opportunistic. If he was carrying a knife.’

  ‘A knife?’

  ‘They were hinting at a violent death on the telly. I guess he stabbed her.’

  He didn’t respond and Bea carried on, thinking aloud.

  ‘Although that doesn’t mean it was planned, I suppose. All sorts of people carried knives when we were at secondary school. It was a thing for a while, until most of them realised how stupid it was and Ricky Swales got caught out and excluded.’

  ‘It wasn’t a stabbing, Bea. He hit her with something. From behind. Hit her on the back of the head with something blunt. A hammer or something – we haven’t found the murder weapon.’